


Open fire

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, Cutting, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, I feel like there should be way more tags, Medical Procedures, Self-Harm, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 19:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13060659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “I hoped you would at least acknowledge it. Maybe ask for a little help, for someone to stay with you or something. Go buy you a gallon of ice cream or take you to see a movie, I don’t know.” Steve bounces the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “You think I’m stupid, Nat, but I’m not. You’re not the first person in the world who’s ever felt bad and not known what to do about it.”__________________________The saga continues.  This time, at Christmas.





	Open fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat/gifts).



> For you, Cat. I think you're the only one who loves and follows this series, and that gives me the boost I need to keep on writing it. 
> 
> Please be aware of possible triggers here. Self-harm and poor mental health.
> 
> Happy Christmas to all. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

___

_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_

_Jack Frost nipping at your nose…_

___

 

Nat listens to the phone ringing out. The device’s screen sticks to her cheek with the tackiness of sweat. She closes her eyes and takes a slow inhalation. _Come on. Pick up._

 

Or not. If no one answers, Nat’ll just continue to bleed out on the floor of her bare-bones apartment. The injury’s not bad enough to kill her. Kind of a disappointment, if she’s honest.

 

The phone rings for a third time. Then a fourth. She’s going to be forwarded to voicemail.

 

Nat’s in the process of sighing with something like resignation mixed with relief when the line suddenly clicks to life. There’s a crackle of bad connection, then “Hello?”

 

“Um. Hi.” Nat’s voice is smoky with vocal fry. Except hers comes from swallowed pain instead of failed attempts at coolness.

 

“Nat. Hey,” Steve answers. “How are you?”

 

“Funny you should ask,” Nat says, gritting her teeth on the next exhale and adjusting the soggy bath towel she has pressed to the gash across her abdomen. “You doing anything tonight?”

 

“I’m on my way to Stark’s Christmas party. I, uh, I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking on the phone while I’m driving,” Steve admits. “You were invited, right? Will I see you there?”

 

Nat imagines him, probably in a crisp and outdated tuxedo, cruising up to Tony Stark’s rented-solely-for-the-occasion mansion and stopping the car before an Addams Family-esque gate.

 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Nat says. She grits her teeth as a throb starts in her stomach and radiates outward to her limbs. “But, um, maybe you wanna drop by my place? If it’s not too far out of the way.”

 

“You really want to see me?” Steve asks with a surprised laugh. “Are you ok?”

 

It sounds like it’s meant to be a joke, but Nat takes it in all seriousness. “I think I might need to go to the ER.”

 

Nat hears tires squeal before Steve hangs up the phone. Once the line goes dead, Nat lets her own device fall to the tile floor, and she tips her head back against the kitchen cabinets. Through the agony of the tear in the skin of her stomach, other sensations are creeping in. There’s a touch of disoriented lightheadedness, plus a chill she’s sure she wasn’t feeling moments earlier. Nat blinks away fog and tries to get a grip.

 

A surprisingly short amount of time passes before there’s loud hammering on her apartment’s thin door. “Nat?” She hears Steve yelling.

 

“Just bust it,” she calls as loudly as she can, which ends up sounding pathetically weak. Then she mumbles, “I’m not getting up.”

 

The doorknob crunches, and there’s a snap as the lock mechanism breaks off. “That’s…really poor security,” Steve says, looking down at the scuffed piece of brass. Then he surveys the sparsely furnished living area. His eyes broaden to saucers when they alight on Nat in her crumpled leaning position.

 

“Hey,” she says seductively, raising one eyebrow.

 

“Oh my god. What happened?” Steve’s on his knees by her side in a second, immediately turning his attention to the blood that’s soaking the edges of the towel.

 

He makes to lift one of her petite, red-smeared hands, but Nat tightens her grip. “It’s just a cut. You don’t need to see it,” she tries to say. She really hopes he doesn’t stand up and see the razor blade in the sink.

 

“No, come on,” Steve says. He lifts both her wrists and peels back the cloth.

 

The bottom of Nat’s t-shirt is tucked into the neckline, so her abdomen and the bottoms of her breasts are exposed. Her toned stomach muscles tremble with a hummingbird’s heartbeat, and dark blood drips sluggishly from a 3-and-a-half-inch vertical gash a bit to the left of her navel.

 

“God, Nat,” Steve breathes. “That’s… that’s a lot of blood.”

 

“’S a crappy towel,” Nat tries to explain, her voice cracking and making her sound even weaker.

 

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “Jesus. You need the ER.” His head movement changes to a nod.

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Nat croaks. She presses the towel back down hard and clamps it in place with her forearm. Nat leans back into the cabinets and tries to squeeze herself off the ground. She lifts her ass about two inches off the tile before all her strength evaporates and her tailbone reconnects with the floor.

 

“Whoa, ok,” Steve says. He lines himself up with her side-to-side and gets an arm behind her back. It’s apparent he’s trying hard not to touch the wound as he grips her body, and he gets a good handful of her boob as they stagger upright. “Sorry,” Steve apologizes, blushing. He adjusts his hand to her ribcage.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Nat hisses through her teeth.

 

Steve supports Nat over the threshold, then she clings to the building’s exterior wall while Steve makes a hasty attempt to put the door back together. The lock’s completely destroyed, so he only succeeds in making it look closed before he peels Nat off the siding and supports her across the narrow parking lot to his car.

 

“I’m’na get blood on the seats,” Nat murmurs as Steve opens the passenger door for her and lowers her to the seat. It’s a great time for Nat to glance down and realize she’s not wearing shoes. The cold asphalt stings her toes through her thin socks. But at least she’s wearing socks. She’s not normally this cautiously stupid. But it’s turning out to be a good thing she’d kept her clothes on.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says, attempting to negotiate the seatbelt around Nat’s folded arms and stained towel.

 

Nat groans as the length of the belt presses against her wound. “No, no, don’t,” she chokes.

 

“But, I have to. It’s for safety,” Steve insists, making a second attempt.

 

“Planning on crashing?” Nat asks.

 

“No.” His eyebrows furrow as though he’s not sure Nat’s making any sense.

 

“Then don’t,” Nat says. “Please?”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Steve concedes. He slams the passenger door shut and closes Nat in. The reverberations that pass from the door through the frame of the car send the crown of Nat’s head into dizzying vibrations.

 

Nat blinks and the driver’s side door is opening. Steve slides in and starts the car. He reverses out of the parking spot and swings around to exit Nat’s apartment complex. “SHIELD’s closed for the holiday,” Steve says. “So I’m gonna have to take you to the closest civilian facility.”

 

Nat had been resting her eyes and focusing on breathing, but now she opens them to see Steve looking inquisitively at her. “Yeah,” she exhales, a hint of _no duh_ in her pain-streaked voice.

 

“Ok, it’s just a few minutes down the road here…” Steve says, merging into traffic.

 

Nat bites the inside of her cheek, but can’t summon the strength to do any damage. He’s going to ask; it’ll only be a matter of seconds now…

 

“How long since it happened?” Steve asks.

 

“Huh?” It’s a question all right, but not the one Nat was expecting.

 

“I mean, it took me about 20 minutes to get to you after you called. Did it…happen right before that?” he presses.

 

“I don’t know,” Nat sighs. It’s hard to quantify time when it’s such a minimal concern compared to overwhelming slow-beat pain. “Few minutes?” She thinks it was probably longer, but she’s not about to tell him the whole point of the exercise had been to enjoy a few moments of solid stinging pain. But then her overzealous hand had gouged the wound about four times larger than she’d meant it to be. The promised stress release had been swallowed in mild panic as she’d watched the pink edges of sliced skin well with far too much blood.

 

Besides his first barking question back in the apartment, Steve’s not asking how Nat came to be injured like this. It seems out of character for him, the curious and perpetually in-control captain and helper-in-chief. Nat tries to convince herself that it doesn’t matter. She should take comfort in the fact that Steve’s got his priorities in line.

 

Nat shuts her eyes against another surge of dizziness. She’s not sure if she’s lost time or not, but it seems hardly a second and the car is bumping up a driveway. Nat’s shoulder slides into the window, and she lets out a small breath of discomfort.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says, flashing Nat a quick glance before returning his attention to driving. “They need to repave that…Sidewalk’s crumbling to bits.”

 

“What a tragedy,” Nat mutters, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay. The overwhelming pain is adding to her piss-poor mood.

 

Steve pulls the car into a parking space and kills the engine. “Ok,” he murmurs, maybe to himself. He exits the vehicle, then comes to collect Nat.

 

Nat expects him to grab her around the tits like he did back in her apartment and guide her to her feet. So that’s the motion she tries to assist with as soon as reaches into her side of the car. She does not expect one muscular arm to hook beneath her knees and swing her out of her seat, bridal style.

 

“You are not going to fucking carry me,” Nat growls. “Put me the fuck down.” She swings her leg, ready to kick Steve in the junk if that’s what it takes. Who cares if she’s not wearing shoes? What does it matter that she’s trembling in agonizing exhaustion? She’s going to move under her own power, even if it kills her.

 

“Ok, alright, calm down,” Steve placates. He gently sets Nat’s sock-clad feet on the ground, then releases the arm from behind her knees. He keeps a stabilizing hold around her shoulders, though. Nat’s happy to pretend she doesn’t need it.

 

The ER is deserted. It’s as if the public of the DC suburbs has reverence for the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and has collectively decided to not get ill or injured today. Too bad Nat’s a rebel. Or maybe she’s just lucky.

 

Once through the automatic sliding doors, Steve deposits Nat in a beige pleather chair. He steps up to the desk to check her in, and is immediately back by her side with a clipboard and paperwork.

 

“What name did you give them?” Nat demands.

 

“Um. Natasha?” Steve says, clearly either forgetting that Nat has aliases or disregarding the possibility that she might want to use one.

 

“Did you give them a last name?”

 

“No, they didn’t ask,” Steve replies. “Why?”

 

“No reason,” Nat sighs. “Just, don’t really want this becoming gossip.” Nat knows she’s getting stitches for sure, and Fury and everyone else will find out sooner or later. But it’ll be better for her sense of mystery if there isn’t an easily hackable patient record floating around with her real name on it.

 

“Ok, well,” Steve poises a pen over the intake form. “What name do you want me to put on here?”

 

“Go ahead and put Rushman,” Nat says.

 

Steve seems to catch her drift and raises his eyebrows. A nurse is passing them on her way out to the parking lot, and, for her benefit, Nat adds, “You know I went back to my maiden name.”

 

“Sure,” Steve says, drawn out enough to sound like a mixture of concentration and skepticism as he scribbles her name on the form. “Date of birth? Allergic to any medications?”

 

Nat tells him. Before they work down to the insurance section of the form, another nurse is ushering them back to an exam room.

 

Nat heaves herself to her feet, but headrush catches up quickly. Steve rescues her with a hand under her elbow. “Ok?” he checks in.

 

The nurse offers to get a wheelchair, but Nat downright refuses. “I’m gonna walk under my own damn power,” Nat says, though she’s running low on breath by the time they make it to the exam room. Steve makes to lift her onto the exam table, but Nat hisses, “Nope,” and flops into a chair in the corner instead. She feels a trickle of blood running down and soaking into the waistband of her yoga pants.

 

“Alright, Natasha,” the nurse says, pulling the curtain across the door to the exam room. She takes Nat’s vitals, then and looks down at the unfinished form on the clipboard she’s grabbed from Steve. “So you’ve got a laceration to your abdomen. Mind if I take a look?”

 

“What happens if I do mind?” Nat says, because she feels like a dangerous fool with a foggy head and low blood pressure.

 

“Seriously?” Steve barks, giving Nat a glare from where he’s perched on the edge of the exam table. He looks to the nurse. “She doesn’t mind. She’s just…in pain.”

 

“He your boyfriend?” the nurse asks. She puts on latex gloves and bends over Nat, then cautiously starts to peel the disgusting towel away from her skin.

 

“More like…emergency contact,” Nat mutters.

 

“Wow, quite a cut there.” The nurse uses her blue-gloved thumb to stem a drop of blood that’s set on running straight down now that the compress has been removed. “What happened?”

 

Nat shrugs, giving a fleeting hope the nurse will just move on.

 

“Natasha?” she prompts instead.

 

Well, since she’s already started on the vein of the lie… “Ex-husband.”

 

“Oh my god,” the nurse exclaims pulling a wad of gauze from nowhere and pressing it to Nat’s wound. “He went after you with a…a razor blade or something?” She knows. She’s seen the cleanness of the cut.

 

“Box cutter,” Nat supplies. She does not look toward Steve.

 

“Have you talked to the police? I could call, have them meet you here,” the nurse offers, still wide-eyed.

 

“No, I’ll take care of it,” Nat says. “Maybe, in a couple days…”

 

“The precinct’s open. If you’re worried about the holiday,” the nurse continues to press.

 

“But still. Not something they need to hear today,” Nat sighs. “I’ll go in on Tuesday. Make a report.” The promise sounds half-assed, but that’s better than sounding like the total bullshit it really is.

 

“Alright,” the nurse says. “Can you keep pressure on that?” She relinquishes the wad of gauze to Nat’s hand. “I’ll grab the doctor. And something for the pain, ok?”

 

Nat vaguely nods. When the nurse slips around the curtain and steps off down the hall, Nat lets her head tip back against the wall. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her grip on the gauze pad slackens slightly, and she feels more blood drops running down into her waistband. “Damnit,” she mutters, trying to wipe them without moving the compress.

 

“Here,” Steve says, hopping down from the edge of the exam table. His dress shoes make a loud slap on the linoleum floor. He grabs a tissue from a box wedged into a wall dispenser and wipes Nat’s stomach.

 

“Thanks,” Nat murmurs. She avoids Steve’s eyes, but gives the rest of him a good once-over. She notices what he’s wearing for the first time, and she zeroes in on the flecks of her blood darkening his blue buttondown into midnight purple. The black blazer looks clean, but Nat knows it has to be trashed from the way he’d been supporting her earlier.

 

“You hanging in there?” Steve asks. He throws the soiled tissue into a trash can across the exam room with a basketball player’s precision.

 

“I’m fine,” Nat replies automatically. Then, “I don’t know if you can do that. It might have to go in biohazard or something…” Is she slurring? She feels like she is. It’s not like she really has any chance of convincing anyone she’s ok given the circumstances, but now all hopes are thoroughly dashed. She feels exposed.

 

Footsteps pound up the hall and the curtain screeches open. A balding man in green scrub pants and a red polo enters, and the same nurse hovers behind him. “Not a great way to kick off your Christmas, huh?” he attempts to joke. The doctor sits heavily on a rolling stool and uses his feet to scoot over to Nat. He motions for her to let go of the gauze pad and leans in to take a look.

 

The doc only looks for a few seconds before asking, “How are you feeling about stitches?”

 

“Does it matter?” Nat deadpans.

 

“Well, I suppose not,” the doc replies with a chuckle. “Here, Abby’s got something for your pain.” He points over his shoulder at the nurse, and she hands Nat two paper cups: one of water, and one containing a large white pill.

 

“Percocet?” Nat asks.

 

“Mm-hm,” Nurse Abby confirms.

 

“Ok.” Nat tosses back the tablet and downs the water in one gulp.

 

“Alright,” the doctor says. “We’ll give that a while to kick in, then I’ll see to stitching you up.”

 

“Don’t need to wait,” Nat poses. “I’m tough.”

 

“Are you sure?” It’s Steve speaking up. “I mean,” he hedges, blushing under Nat’s glare, “You sure you don’t want to wait? It doesn’t have to hurt so much.”

 

“Get it over with,” Nat sighs. “I just want to go home.”

 

“Alright, then,” the doctor repeats. “I’ll get things set up.”

 

In the empty ER, it only takes a few minutes for the doc and Nurse Abby to retrieve all the fixings for stitches. First they see to cleaning up her blood-smeared skin with stinging fluid on clean gauze pads, then the pull of the needle starts up.

 

Nat’s normally not queasy about medical procedures, but today she can’t quite bear to look down at the blue-gloved hands repairing the gouge in her skin. It’s easier for her to just tip her head back again and split her gaze between Steve’s hunched shoulders and the texture of the wall. The wall is more interesting because even though it’s painted white, every time Nat blinks it starts to edge into the territory of another color like pink or blue.

 

After what could easily be half an eternity or just a handful of seconds, Steve catches her eye. “Doing ok?”

 

Nat nods. It doesn’t hurt, not really. The searing throb of the cut itself is enough to make the tiny nicks of the needle feel like nothing. It’s more the sensation of unfamiliar hands and cold air on her skin that’s bothering her. She’d rather have stitched it up herself. But with her shaky hands and lack of medical-grade supplies, even Nat knows that would’ve been a bad idea.

 

The doctor makes a final snip to the thread, and Nat’s clenched abdominals relax as the touch rescinds. She hadn’t realized she’d been quite so tense. Icy cold yellow fluid is brushed over the row of Frankenstein stitches, and Nurse Abby comes in with another gauze pad and tape.

 

“You’ll have to be careful when you’re moving around,” the doctor warns. “You can wrap an ace bandage around it or something if you feel like it needs more support.” He pulls a prescription pad from a cargo pocket on his scrubs and starts scribbling. “I’m writing you a script for antibiotics and painkillers.”

 

“Just, no,” Nat interjects. “Just the antibiotics. I don’t need…”

 

“You don’t have to take them,” the doc says patiently. “But with a slice like that, I think it’d be a good idea for you to have them available. Don’t want you having to come back because you’re in so much pain.” He hands her the script.

 

“Whatever,” Nat concedes. “Can we…I’m done, right? Let’s go.”

 

“Yes, very soon,” the doc placates. “Just a couple more things.”

 

Nurse Abby wraps a blood pressure cuff around Nat’s arm again and starts pumping. “Just gotta be sure you’re high enough to keep from passing out when you stand up,” she says.

 

“I’m good,” Nat insists.

 

“Well, we wouldn’t mind you staying under observation for a little while,” the doc says with a knowing chuckle. “If you’re still not feeling great, or if you need a, uh, safe place to be for a couple hours…”

 

“I said I’m good,” Nat says, starting to get frustrated. “I just want to go home.” She reaches over and undoes the Velcro on the blood pressure cuff, then forces herself up to her feet. She’s still shaking hard, but able to hold herself up. Nat untucks the tail of her bloodstained shirt and covers herself up.

 

“Ok, alright,” Steve jumps into the fray and drapes his arm over Nat’s shoulders. “She’s been holding it together really well, but she’s actually pretty scared of hospitals,” he lies. “I think it’d be better if I just take her home. Or to my place.”

 

The doc and Nurse Abby exchange looks, but don’t contradict. “You’ll need to see a doctor again within two weeks,” the doc says. “Maybe a little after New Years. Do you have a GP?”

 

“Yeah,” Nat grunts. “I will.” Her patience is evaporating. She looks up at Steve, and he helpfully steers her around the curtain and toward the automatic doors.

 

Nat knows she fucked up before they get to the car. She made a mistake, lied and ran with it, all in front of Steve. He unlocks the car and opens the door for Nat. She ducks inside and rests her elbows on her knees, forehead dropped into her hands.

 

They’re on the road again before anyone speaks. It’s thoroughly dark outside, and Nat wonders how late Steve’s going to be at Stark’s Christmas party. Then she wonders how much blood she’s going to have to clean up when she gets home.

 

“Nat?” Steve asks quietly.

 

“Don’t ask me, please.”

 

“I know. I know you lied.”

 

“No fucking shit,” Nat whispers toward her lap.

 

“I want you to tell me what really happened,” Steve says.

 

“Why would I talk to you? You’re just gonna care too much and turn me in to Fury.”

 

“You called me, Nat. Do you remember?”

 

She does remember. She did call him. Maybe because his contact in her phone is listed under Captain America, and therefore comes up earlier in the alphabet than others like Hawkeye and Pepper Potts. But now that she’s slightly high, Nat questions why she ever decided to press the little green phone button.

 

“It was…” Nat starts. “HYDRA must’ve hacked some database, got my home address.” She wraps her arms gently around her stomach, which is starting to feel unsettled as well as painful. “Knocked on my door, thought it was probably UPS or something.” Nat pauses to breathe. “Melee’d it out. I got cut. He ran away.”

 

Steve sighs and stops at a red light. Nat lifts her head and peers at the sparkling streetlights out the window. She doesn’t immediately recognize the scenery. They’re nowhere near her apartment. “I thought you were taking me home,” Nat says. The feeling’s leached out of her voice, but the rasp has remained. She just sounds exhausted now.

 

“No, I…don’t think you’re ready right now,” Steve says.

 

“Why? Take me home,” Nat demands.

 

“Because…god, Nat.” Steve rubs between his eyes, then puts both hands back on the wheel as the light changes. “It’s a Sunday. And you’re not stupid enough to take packages at home anyway.” He sighs. “You would’ve called Fury if it was HYDRA.”

 

“Fury’s home for Christmas, in…wherever he’s from,” Nat mumbles.

 

“It doesn’t matter, Nat. None of it matters. Just stop lying. Please.” He’s steered the car into an unfamiliar neighborhood that’s heavy on the Whole Foods and wrought-iron gates.

 

“Then you might as well stop asking.”

 

“I will then,” Steve says, his volume starting to rise. “I know. I know, ok? I know what you did, and if you don’t want to talk about it, then fine.”

 

Nat feels like she’s been punched in her doubly tender stomach. “Well fuck you.”

 

“I hoped you would at least acknowledge it. Maybe ask for a little help, for someone to stay with you or something. Go buy you a gallon of ice cream or take you to see a movie, I don’t know.” Steve bounces the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “You think I’m stupid, Nat, but I’m not. You’re not the first person in the world who’s ever felt bad and not known what to do about it.”

 

Nat muses over the words. They come as a delayed flash of pain, like the sting of a bullet that appears only after the thing’s already flown through her skin twice over. With Steve’s past, it’s only logical that he was depressed. Or whatever it was called in the decades before the DSM.

 

“Where are we going?” she asks, finding nothing more appropriate to say.

 

“Christmas party,” Steve says, frustration competing with dullness in his tone.

 

“I don’t want to go to a fucking Christmas party,” Nat complains. “I want to go home.”

 

“You need to be around people right now,” Steve says. “I don’t want to leave you by yourself, and this is where I’m going, so…” he trails off.

 

“People are gonna find out…” Nat sighs. “This is…you can’t…”

 

“Fury’s not gonna be there,” Steve placates. “You’ll be ok.”

 

“I’m covered in blood,” Nat says, looking down at her once heather-gray shirt, splotched with shades of burgundy in the moonlight. “Hell, so are you.”

 

“Stark won’t care,” Steve says. “And a little while ago, weren’t you saying that you felt fine? I know it’s a lie, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn down a challenge. Come on, how do you feel about putting in some appearances?” His tone edges toward playful now, as if he’s decided to try catching Nat with honey after failing miserably with vinegar.

 

“How do you feel about me barfing in your car?” Nat says by way of response.

 

Steve quickly glances over at her, hugging her middle and huddled against the window. “You really feeling bad, or are you just saying that?”

 

Nat shrugs. It’s a combination of both if she’s honest, which apparently she isn’t. Now that the stabbing pain of her laceration has worn down to something more like a throb, discomfort has crystallized in a mass of heavy seasickness in her skull. It could be leftover adrenaline or partially metabolized Percocet or any one of a dozen things.

 

“Let me know if you need to pull over,” Steve says shooting her another look. “But I think we’re almost there.” He turns down a meandering street and peers at the sign. “Yes, it’s this street. Just have to figure out which way to number 1225…”

 

The mansion in question turns out to be the one with eight or ten large, shiny cars parked on the street in front of it. There is an intricate gate surrounding the house just like Nat had imagined, but it’s significantly less sinister than she’d expected.

 

Steve escorts Nat out of the car and up to the gate. He feels along the side of the metal for a doorbell or something similar, but before he finds one, a familiar voice rings out. “Good evening, Captain Rogers and Miss Romanov,” JARVIS says cheerfully. “The festivities are already underway.” The gate swings open of its own accord. “Please, join the guests in the parlor, just off the main hall to the right.”

 

“All this for just a weekend?” Steve murmurs, shaking his head. He supports Nat across the threshold of the beautifully modern colonial-style house, thought the main hall, and into the lavishly decorated parlor. An immense Christmas tree dominates one corner of the room, and white leather couches fill most of the rest of the space.

 

“Cap!” Tony Stark calls, setting down a glass of scotch and jumping to his feet. “And you’ve brought the lovely lady…” He apparently process the scene before his eyes and immediately changes tact. Tony sweeps Nat and Steve back to the hall and loudly whispers, “What the fuck happened to you?”

 

“Um.” Steve doesn’t have an immediate answer. Nat looks up at him expectantly, wondering what the hell he’s going to say. She assumes the truth, since he’d lectured her so hard in the car not a few minutes ago. But that would give Tony Stark, and therefore everyone, a hard look into Nat’s most personal of personal affairs. Steve’s got to be above that. He has to be. Or she’s done for.

 

“Nat…Yeah, Nat got on the wrong side of a…” Steve starts. He makes eye contact with her and furrows his brows in concentration that Nat can’t distinguish as real or dramatic. “What was it he cut you with again? A…box cutter?”

 

“Box cutter,” Nat echoes, nodding. Is he seriously going to reinvent the make-believe she told at the hospital?

 

“You know, when assassins get together…” Steve presses on with an uncomfortable giggle that’s probably legitimate.

 

Nat spins around, dislodges Steve’s supportive arm, and glares at him. “What…fucking—seriously?” Is she hearing this correctly? Nat knows the painkillers are fucking her up, but…where the heck did he suddenly get the balls to make up lies about her sex life? It’s so out of character Nat wants to slap him upside the head. Or at least, she would want to if she didn’t think the action would drop her firmly on her ass.

 

“Hey, hey, I don’t think she’s over him yet,” Tony says, giving Steve his own death stare and opening his arms to Nat, who’s swaying slightly. “I believe the proper terminology is ‘Oh my god, what a rat bastard.’” His hand accidentally brushes Nat’s bandaged wound, and she cringes, expelling air through her teeth.

 

“What’d I do?” Tony asks hurriedly, relocating his hand from her waist to her shoulder. Nat shakily lifts the hem of her bloody shirt a couple of inches to reveal the bottom of the gauze pad concealing her wound.

 

“Ok, you’re all taped up,” Tony observes. “You got, like, stitches under there?”

 

Nat nods, and Steve pipes up again with, “Yeah, we’ve been to the ER.”

 

“Well, at least he’s good for something,” Tony says. “I’ll get you fixed up. Better than fixed up. Ok? Ok.” He cranes his neck, looking for his next course of action. “Pepper, honey? Hey, can you come here for a minute?”

 

Nat looks back to Steve, who’s becoming blurrier by the second, and notices his sly smile. Realization hits Nat like a ton of bricks she seriously doesn’t need. He’d been plotting the whole time. She’s played right into it. So has Tony, but Nat feels like she should be smarter than this. It normally takes a lot more than one dose of Percocet to get her reeling this badly, but then again, she has had a lot more. Like severe pain and lingering self-hatred and a few hours in the presence of Steve’s abject moral stupidity… But she does owe him a thank-you. Later, though, when the room’s not spinning.

 

Nat almost doesn’t recognize Pepper’s tall and nearly spectral form as she glides toward them, her slim-line silver dress brushing the floor. Nat’s preoccupied with vertigo that’s rapidly turning to nausea. Her tremble’s ratcheting up in line with the heat rising in her chest.

 

“Oh my god, what happened?” Pepper asks predictably when she approaches the cluster in the entryway.

 

“I’m not sure of all the facts,” Tony says, “But I’m gonna go with one-night-stand-gone-wrong.”

 

Pepper looks from Nat to Steve, who’s also visibly bloody. “Really?”

 

“Geez, no,” Steve backtracks. “Her and…I don’t know.”

 

“Are you ok, Nat?” Pepper asks sweetly.

 

Nat’s planning on saying _yes_. Or maybe _no_. But her throat contracts and she swallows thickly, giving up on uttering words.

 

“Maybe get her something to wear, see if she needs a painkiller or a glass of wine or a snack or something.” Tony counts off the possibilities on his fingers.

 

Before she can open her mouth to warn anyone, Nat’s suddenly doubling over herself and heaving. She covers her mouth as quickly as she can, but clear fluid drips between her fingers and onto the wood floor.

 

“Or, you know, maybe a toilet to puke in,” Tony says, taking a slightly disgusted step back.

 

Pepper immediately moves in to grab Nat’s shoulders and sweep her hair back from her face. Nat presses her free hand over the bandages on her stomach; the involuntary contraction of her muscles is hurting something fierce.

 

“D’you need…?” Steve asks as Nat gags again.

 

“I got it,” Pepper says, patting Nat on the back.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Nat chokes out. “I…don’t feel good.”

 

“No shit,” Tony mutters.

 

“Yeah,” Pepper soothes. “Let’s try to get to the bathroom. Think you can do that?”

 

Nat nods dizzily and tries not to dry heave.

 

Pepper steers her down the hall, through a dark room, and into a bathroom. The lights burn Nat’s eyes when Pepper flicks them on, and she immediately hunches over the toilet to throw up a few lungfuls of air and a couple tablespoons of bile. Is there a thing about taking painkillers on an empty stomach? The more Nat thinks about it, the more she feels like she’s screwed.

 

Frigid bathroom tile bites into Nat’s knees, and her curled toes have found fresh holes in her socks. A new, shivery kind of shakiness spasms through her limbs.

 

“Alright,” Pepper says, smoothing her hand down Nat’s back, then down the goosebumps on the back of her arm. “God, you’re cold.”

 

“Yeah,” Nat rasps, pawing at the toilet paper so she can wipe her mouth and soiled hand. It belatedly occurs to her that she’s been faffing around town in flipping December without a coat or shoes or a purse or anything. Funny how common sense intelligence is suspended in the face of things like massively bleeding wounds.

 

“Think you’re done? We can get you into some different clothes,” Pepper offers.

 

“Um… Ok. I don’t know,” Nat mutters through a choked breath. She’s positive she’s empty, and the fact of it is making her feel sicker than she thinks should be possible. “Still really…ya know.”

 

“Nauseous?” Pepper supplies.

 

“Yeah.” Nat spits dregs of foul-tasting saliva into the toilet bowl, then pushes herself back on her heels.

 

“You probably need to eat,” Pepper observes.

 

“Ugh.”

 

“Yeah, I know how it sounds. We’ll get you settled first.” Pepper helps Nat to her feet. “Are you allowed to get your stitches wet?”

 

It occurs to Nat that she never asked back at the hospital. But it’s not her first rodeo. “Probably not.”

 

Pepper towels Nat off with a warm washcloth and offers her clean fleece pajama pants and an MIT sweatshirt. Nat’s positive it’s one that Pepper’s stolen off Tony.

 

“I’ll have your clothes washed,” she promises, gingerly folding Nat’s bloody shirt. Nat looks at the hideously stained fabric and decides she’s not fussed.

 

“Incinerated is probably better,” Nat says.

 

“If you’re sure? I’ll order you some new clothes as replacements,” Pepper offers.

 

Nat shrugs. “I don’t really need…”

 

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be a Christmas present,” Pepper says.

 

Once Nat’s feet are tucked into cashmere socks, Pepper asks her, “Do you want to stay in here?” She gestures around at what Nat assumes is the master bedroom. “Or go back out to the party?”

 

“Should probably put in an appearance,” Nat mumbles.

 

Pepper keeps a steadying hand on Nat’s upper back as they slowly walk back down the hall to the parlor where most of the Avengers are laughing loudly. She finds a seat on one of the couches a few feet down from Steve, who’s shed his dirty shirt and jacket. His white undershirt looks bizarre with his dress slacks, but he’s no more oddly dressed than Nat, now bringing pajama style to the just-shy-of-formal event.

 

“You’re not going to puke again, are you?” Tony asks, holding two champagne flutes close to his chest.

 

“No promises,” Nat rasps.

 

“I’ll find you a nice ice bucket,” Tony says, “But in the meantime, here.” He hands over one of the slender glasses of bubbly, and Nat raises her eyebrows at him.

 

“You’re more out of your mind than I am,” she says.

 

“Come on, it’s ginger ale,” Tony says, “I wouldn’t give you alcohol in your state. I’m not that stupid.” He hands the other glass to Steve. “I’m not gonna waste my booze on you when you can’t get tipsy anyway.”

 

“Nice sentiment.” Steve sets his plate of appetizers down on the coffee table so he can accept the glass.

 

Nat stifles a giggle.

 

Steve slides down the length of white leather between them and settles beside Nat. “How’re you feeling?”

 

“Pretty gross,” Nat admits. Her head’s developed a consistent throb to match the one in her wound, and her visual field’s still blurry around the edges. Nausea and lightheadedness have dialed back a touch, but remain annoyingly present.

 

Tony sidles past and plunks an ornate silver ice bucket on the side table by Nat’s elbow, then waltzes off. His attempt at surreptitiousness is obvious, and made unbearably comical by the sideways glance he shoots Nat’s way. She and Steve are both laughing now.

 

A second later, Pepper moves a tray of cheese and crackers to the coffee table and pointedly arranges some plain saltines around the edges.

 

“They’re really going out of their way to take care of you,” Steve quietly observes.

 

“Yeah,” Nat muses. “I don’t deserve it, though.”

 

“Of course you do,” Steve says. “It’s Christmas. You’re sick.”

 

“Is that what you really think? That I’m sick?”

 

“Ah, god, that’s not what I meant,” Steve backtracks. “You’re not feeling good. I bet you weren’t feeling that good earlier, just maybe in a different kind of way.

 

“Hm.” Nat doesn’t deny it. She takes a tiny sip of ginger ale and feels the bubbles burst in her sinuses.

 

“Nat, can I ask you something?” Steve has a look of candid concern on his face.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Why?”

 

Why what? Why’d she do it? It’s not something Nat’s thought much about, let alone something she feels comfortable talking about, especially not right fucking now. “Um…?”

 

“Why me?” Steve clarifies.

 

Nat ponders it for a second. “Because…I thought you’d do the right thing.”

 

“Is it, um…working out?” Steve asks, uncertainty in his voice.

 

Nat reaches out with her champagne flute to toast it gently against Steve’s. “I think maybe it is.”

 

___

_Merry Christmas_

_To you_

___

 

 


End file.
